


Iron fist in a velvet glove

by Fatale (femme)



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for collarkink prompt: Neal finds himself getting turned on by the way Peter manhandles him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron fist in a velvet glove

Written for [](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/profile)[**collarkink**](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/) prompt [Neal finds himself getting turned on by the way Peter manhandles him](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/3437.html?thread=4332397#t4332397).

Iron fist in a velvet glove  
Peter/Neal  
NC-17  
WC: approx. 1,230

 

 

It starts out innocently enough -- Peter’s grouchy, Neal’s busy flirting, the sky is blue and grass is green -- when Peter grabs Neal’s arm, yanks him a little to propel him forward. Peter’s taller than Neal and he uses those inches to his advantage; he walks fast, long legs eating up the sidewalk, his hand a vise-like grip on Neal’s arm, leaving Neal to stumble-jog to keep up.

Even after he lets go, shoots Neal a small apologetic frown, Neal can still feel the heat of it, Peter’s fist curled around his bicep like a brand.

 

\---

 

Neal knows he has kind of a size kink. It’s not news to him, but it’s not like he passes the information around, types it up to add to June’s annual Christmas newsletter. It’s lead him down dark paths before, unpleasant situations with large men with butch names who wear fluorescent trucker hats and call him pretty boy. He’d long ago tucked that kink carefully away, secure in the knowledge that it didn’t lead anywhere pleasant, nowhere he’d care to be again.

Still, when Peter grabs his arm, steers him around, or just fucking _stands over him_ , a tight coil of heat flares to life in his belly, his chest, where his heart hammers wildly.

 

\---

 

He has to know, he has to be abso-fucking-lutely sure it’s about Peter and not something that can be solved with a quick, anonymous fuck.

 

\---

 

Neal lingers a little, making sure to walk at least ten paces behind Peter.

Peter patiently waits at the light for him to catch up, slightly puzzled. “Feeling okay?” Peter asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Neal mutters. “Need coffee, maybe.”

He’s not paying attention to where he’s going, the sun’s in his eyes, which is why he doesn’t see the jagged, raised edge of concrete; he stumbles and Peter reflexively grabs his arm. Neal feels the sharp jolt of pain first, then Peter’s large fingers digging into his arm, his shoulder, holding him steady. He looks up without thinking and whatever Peter sees there stops him dead. He drops Neal’s arm and his lips go tight, his expression thoughtful.

“Let’s go get that coffee,” Peter says after a moment.

“Sure, okay,” Neal says, three steps behind Peter, frantically willing his half-hard erection to go the fuck away.

 

\---

 

It’s doesn’t happen in any obvious way that Neal can pinpoint, exactly, but Peter keeps his distance after that. The casual touches stop. Peter stands a respectful distance away, enough to make Neal realize they always stood way too damn close in the first place. Their interactions don’t change: Peter remains friendly, Neal continues to try the ever-expanding limits of Peter’s patience -- maybe trying to force a reaction, anything to let him know he hasn’t fucked their relationship up beyond repair.

Though he never catches Peter watching him, sometimes he feels Peter’s eyes on him, dark and assessing.

Neal wouldn’t exactly rather go back to prison than be here, but it’s an uncomfortably close thing.

 

\----

 

Everyone left hours ago, but he’s been staring at this cold case without seeing it since early afternoon, willing at least some of it to sink into his brain, make connections that his eyes can’t see right now. The floors creak occasionally, the clock ticks steady time--

“Neal,” Peter says, right behind him and Neal nearly jumps out of his skin, holy god, he’s wound so tight.

“Jesus, Peter, you scared the shit out of me,” Neal snaps.

“Sorry,” Peter says, not sounding sorry at all. He leans over Neal’s shoulder, peers down on the file open on Neal’s desk. “Making any progress?” he asks and Neal wants to reply, _Yes, in coming in my pants and humiliating myself. Absolutely yes._

Instead he says, “I’ve tracked down a few leads, maybe. I was just about to run them by you.”

“Tomorrow,” Peter says decisively, reaching around Neal and flipping the folder shut. His warmth lingers at Neal’s back, his breath skitters across Neal’s neck. Unconsciously Neal closes his eyes, leans back into the incredible heat.

“I -- do we need to talk about this?” Peter asks.

Neal shakes his head _no_ , eyes still closed.

“Neal, look at me,” Peter orders. He turns Neal’s chair around. “Neal--fuck,” he says in a long exhale.

Neal jumps when he feels the first warm press of lips, chapped and wholly unfamiliar, against his own. He’s thought about this, dreamed about this, but the reality is -- it doesn’t even bear comparing.

He opens his lips reflexively under the hot, insistent pressure of Peter’s mouth, his tongue. Neal groans, embarrassingly, shockingly turned on.

“Turn around,” Peter says, voice rough, teeth nipping at his ear, his neck.

Neal turns, unzips his pants with clumsy, shaking fingers. Peter’s hands are a warm pressure at his back; he pushes Neal forward, face down, long shuddering breaths fogging the cheap laminate. The Socrates bust, pencil holder, wire file basket scatter, pens rolling across the floor, papers fanned out and hopelessly out of order. He feels a finger spit-slick press inside him, twist, and he can’t help the low, plaintive sound that tears from his chest. “Fuck, Peter, christ--” he tries. He needs more.

Peter adds another finger, then another until Neal feels the burn of it, stretched out and fucking _ready._

“Are you sure--” Peter starts, sounding hesitant, unsure, for the first time since this began.

“Yes, please, fucking _please_ ,” Neal says, babbling, not even sure what he’s pleading for.

The hard, blunt width of Peter feels incredible, too careful, too slow. He fucks himself back onto Peter’s cock, fingers uselessly scrabbling for purchase against the desk, the sharp edge digging into his stomach uncomfortably.

Peter groans behind him, deep and gutted. “Neal, Neal,” he says, “I’m -- I’m not going to last--” as his fingers tighten reflexively against Neal’s hips, digging in. Neal’s going to have bruises tomorrow; he’s not going to be able to easily for a week, but he doesn’t care. He wants whatever Peter will give him, he wants to remember this feeling -- too full and Peter fucking in and out of his body, losing his rhythm, thrusting erratically and out of control, the flood of warmth deep inside him. Peter hauls him up, holds him against his chest with one arm looped around his waist, while the other circles his cock, jerks him off fast, too rough until -- his orgasm expands, a build up of pressure from his balls to his dick, and he’s thrusting into Peter’s tight fist, mouth open, gasping, eyes screwed shut.

 

\---

 

His desk is ruined.

Neal may never actually get any work done here ever again. Every time he sees the desk, he’s going to think of this moment, of Peter holding him up, pressing burning, sweaty kisses into the side of his jaw, his ear, his neck. His pants are around his knees; he knows he looks ridiculous, but he passed giving a flying fuck one orgasm and twenty minutes ago. Peter tucks him back in, zips up his pants for him, says in his ear, gritty and full of promise, “Let’s take this somewhere else.”

Neal shivers and lets Peter lead the way.

 

 

 

 

The end.

 


End file.
